Complete
by mettigel
Summary: My reaction to the latest discussion on R/Hr. COMPLETE (and this refers to the story status, not to the title, haha. Silly me).


_Author's Notes: Saddening as it is, I'm sort of relieved that I'm not the only one who was disappointed with JKR's and Emma Watson's recent revelations about Ron and the R/Hr relationship. And reading some of the fics that other authors had written as a reaction to that made me decide to share my own story that had developed in the back of my head since I had read the interview. This might not be my best and really is some sort of "brain diarrhea" that I typed within half an hour, but I hope you enjoy it all the same!_

_Edit 11-FEB-2014: I fixed the language-related blunders that I still found in the story. Note to myself: set greater store by proofreading the next time I spew out a story like that (no pun intended). Sigh._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Ron and Hermione. Unfortunately._

* * *

**Complete**

Nothing was like it had been before.

And it never would be again because they had moved on. Moved on to a new location that he could not know about. He could not return, even in the highly unlikely case that he wanted to.

But it was not only that. When he had left, he had taken so many other things along with him.

Happiness.

Hope.

Light.

Warmth.

It was all wrong.

For the first couple of days, it seemed like all Hermione had been able to do was crying. Crying day and night. Crying about the injustice of it all. Crying for her heart that he had carelessly smashed into many pieces. Crying until she ran out of tears. And then some.

And when she was not crying, she was going through the motions. True, Harry and she were still discussing the remaining Horcruxes, searching for food, moving from place to place, but it did not make any sense anymore. And Harry just could not fill the gaping void that Ron had left.

And she was not sure if she wanted him to. True, she was seeking his company more often than usual these days - after all, who else could she turn to? - but it was simply not the same. Whenever she was alone, she wanted to be with him, and whenever she was with him, she wanted to be alone as it always reminded her of how wrong, how unreal, their situation was. Their conversation was stunted, defaulting to the topic of the Horcruxes, and deep down, Hermione knew that this was because both of them were thinking that they could not burden the other with the one topic they really wanted to talk about.

The one time it happened had been awkward enough.

"How can you cope with it?" she had asked him one night when she had caught him following Ginny's dot on the Marauder's Map while he was taking watch.

It was like Harry had immediately known what she had been talking about. "Not at all," he had admitted miserably and new tears had welled up in her eyes.

"C'mere," Harry had said in a dull voice when he had seen that, his arm reaching out for her, and she had fallen into him, sobbing, bawling, clutching her friend for dear life because she had feared that if she let go, he would disappear as well.

She did not know how much time they had spent like that, in each other's arms, attempting to comfort each other, serving as a sorry excuse for the two persons they had really been craving for - because that was all it had been, though she would never have admitted it to Harry. His embrace, while serving as the consoling proof that she was not alone, had not made anything better, really. It had been the fact that his arms had not been Ron's, his scent that she had inhaled had not been Ron's and the soothing circles he had rubbed on her back had felt different from the ones that Ron used to provide. Hermione dearly wished it had not been that way, but as much as he tried, Harry could not be her rock. On the contrary, they still had a mission to accomplish and so, _she_ actually had to be strong one. For Harry.

She had never sought his comfort again afterwards, trying to carry on as always, hiding all her tears from him. But it was starting to take a physical toll. For starters, she had not been able to sleep properly, kept up by a bizarre mixture of restlessness and paralysis. And she could not let any of it out, not as openly and forcefully as she wanted to at any rate. How much longer did it have to be like that? It needed to stop. She would never see him again, after all, and she could not possibly go on like that forever, could she, as a nervous wreck, stuck in this perverse sort of grey and dull limbo. How pathetic was that?

"Enough," Hermione told herself. "Get over it!"

And so, she tried to talk herself out of loving him (because _love_ was what it was, from her side at least). To remind herself of all those times he had hurt her in all those years, of all those tears she had shed because of him before. Of him calling her a nightmare in first year. Of him snubbing her in third year after the incidents with the Firebolt and Scabbers. Of him ruining her Yule Ball night. Of all the insecurities of hers that he had, unknowingly, pointed out to her when he had started to fancy women like Madam Rosmerta and Fleur. And of how he had broken her heart the first time when he had been with Lavender.

And still, this was not enough, because even back then, she had known that he had been there somewhere, and he had ultimately come back every time. And moreover, as much as she hoped they would, even all these bad memories could not overshadow the good ones. Like the uncountable times he had defended her from the likes of Malfoy. All the incidents in which his sometimes infuriating but more often endearing and easygoing personality had slowly broken down the defenses that she had carefully built during her friendless childhood and had allowed her to be herself. All the times he had lightened her mood with something as simple as a small gesture or a joke when she had been worried about an exam, about Harry, about a future in a world order in which she was regarded as nothing but scum. He had always been there; he had been her rock, her light, the person, the one thing, that had made everything bearable, especially since the beginning of their mission. And even though she knew that it was silly because he did not feel that way for her, he had also been her reason for going through all this. The prospect of a future with him was what had kept her going, the one thing she had been fighting for.

And she hated herself for thinking like that. Because it was over, wasn't it? He would never come back, after all, and all chances of her imagined future were destroyed. Once and for all.

But still, she wondered what could have been. He had been different to her since he had woken up from his mead poisoning, more thoughtful, more gentle, and it had given her some hope that maybe, there was a tiny little chance that he would return a fraction of the feelings that she harbored for him. And she wondered what things would have been like if she had seen the signs of his discontent earlier and had done something about it. He would still be there, and maybe, just _maybe_...

"Enough," she reprimanded herself again and pulled out a cluster of dandelion with much more force than was necessary.

But then, one miserable night in late December, the miracle happened.

He had come back.

And all the feelings that she had kept inside for so long were now washing over her all at once.

Joy.

Relief.

Anger.

Sadness.

Hatred.

Love.

And she let them all out.

And while she punched him, kicked him, screamed at him, and Merlin knew what else, she felt more alive than she had been for the past couple of weeks.

And when she laid awake that night, comforted by the even breaths and soft snores of _both_ her boys, she knew why.

Yes, he had ripped her heart out of her chest and torn it apart. But she felt that it was now, slowly but steadily, on the mend and that, eventually, she would be fine.

Because she was finally complete again.


End file.
